


The Composer

by Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: I Tried, M/M, my other possible submission for Phantastichomos fic contest, ugh Raoul is perfect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 08:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2725709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AKA, Raoul de Chagny, savior of flying belongings everywhere</p><p>In which Raoul's parents were originally patrons of the opera, but the family stopped after their death; Erik actually worked at the opera and had been for a while, and Raoul is adorable</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Composer

Raoul loved the opera. It held an air of mystery that so many other places lacked, even through the romanticized vision of his ten-year-old eyes. Of course, there were some drawbacks to the Opera House.  
Case in point: Phillipe.  
"No, Raoul, you're supposed to stick close to me," he sighed, tugging at Raoul's hand.  
Raoul pouted. "But Phillipe," he whined.  
His brother's grip held fast. No matter, he would escape soon enough. Just as soon as—  
"Viscount," La Sorelli's smile was coy.  
"Mademoiselle," Phillipe coughed, flushing.  
Perfect! Now, with Phillipe distracted, he could easily slide his hand out of Phillipe's and creep away.  
It would be at least a minute of stumbling over his words before Phillipe would notice that Raoul was gone, and Raoul was determined to make the most of it. He ran backstage, dodging stagehands and stray ballet girls as he went, playing knight and pirate and Prince Charming all at once. A wordless cry distracted him from his romping about, however, and he turned just to see a piece of sheet music rip its way off of the new composer's music stand.

The new composer was a strange man who wore a mask; Raoul had yet to actually meet him, but he did know what all the ballet girls said about him. There were tales of him being from Persia; of him being a siren with a voice of molten gold. Those were Raoul's favorite stories of him. There were others too, meaner ones, ones that said he was a monster who wrote music so prettily to lure in girls; where he was a ghost haunting the opera house. Raoul thought that was rather far fetched.

Nontheless, Ghost or man or angel, a knight helped out those who needed it. And he looked dreadfully upset about it, and Raoul didn't like people looking upset. So, he ran after the offending piece of paper, flitting away in the wind.  
He nearly tumbled over Carlotta in haste to catch the paper; she cursed at him in a screechy soprano. He winced, hoping that Philippe wouldn't hear. He didn't even stop and apologize, he was in hot pursuit. It hit a pillar and slowed, he grinned and lurched forward. Just a little bit closer.....ha! He beamed.  
~~~  
"Monsieur!" He called to the composer.  
The composer ignored him.  
"Monsieur!" He whined, tugging on his sleeve.  
"What!" He snapped, still not looking at him. "I don't have time for this."  
Raoul frowned. That wasn't nice at all. But perhaps the composer was just upset about his lost sheet music. Raoul would be upset about it if it happened to him. "I have your sheet music Monsieur."  
"What?" He glanced down. "Ah. I suppose you do," he cleared his throat, taking the sheet away from him.  
Raoul coughed, staring at him pointedly.  
"Hm? Thank you." He muttered, completely absorbed in the music once more.  
...That was it? A lame thank you, then ignorance forever? It was nearly enough to turn Raoul away from good deeds forever, he grumbled, shuffling away from the piano. Then,  
"Boy!" The composer shouted. "What's your name?"  
He tilted his head. "It's Raoul de Chagny, Monsieur." This man was very strange.  
He hummed. "Raoul de Chagny..." He murmured. "It is good to meet you, Raoul de Chagny."  
"It's rude to ask somebody their name and not give one in return." Raoul frowned.  
He looked up from his compositions, confused, as though no one had ever asked that of him before. "You...you may call me Erik."  
~~~~  
"It has been ages since I've been here!" Raoul laughed, eighteen and beautiful, though more viscount than knight.  
"You were what, about eight?" Phillipe laughed.  
"It's less grand than I remember," he sighed.  
"Most things are," Phillipe said. "You were fond of everything."  
"There were so many things to be fond of!" Raoul protested. "New places around every corner, and hiding places within those! So many people, too."  
"And you charmed them all," Phillipe rolled his eyes.  
"Oh, surely not all of them."  
"Yes, _all of them_."  
"....Well, perhaps."  
"Come along," Phillipe said exasperatedly. "We're nearly late for our meeting with the new managers."  
They approached the managers office, where they were met with sharp yells behind the door. A masked man stormed out, clutching a manuscript and scowling. The managers strolled out after him, pinching the bridges of their noses and sighing.  
"Sorry about that," Monsieur Andre said. "He thinks he's a genius."  
"Never mind that his works are hardly mainstream." Firmin grumbled. "They won't sell, the way he has them written."  
"I never would have hired him," Andre scoffed. "But the old owners seemed awfully fond of him."  
"He is the composer, then?" Phillipe said.  
"Aye," Firmin groaned. "If you can call that music."  
"Our mother was very fond of his works," Phillipe fixed them with a meaningful glare.  
The manager's eyes widened as though they were does infront of a carriage.  
"I...see..." They swallowed. "Perhaps we might introduce you to him, after the performance Friday night?"  
"I'm certain my brother and I would enjoy that greatly."  
To be truthful, neither Raoul nor Phillipe actually remembered any of his operas—just how their mother hummed the notes for weeks afterwards.  
~~~  
Don Juan was... Creative, to say the least. Some men might call it genius. Less generous ones would call it a monstrosity. Nonetheless, it wasn't like anything anyone had heard before.

"Mother always said he was a bit of an acquired taste," Phillipe cringed.  
"I thought it was lovely." Raoul protested.  
Phillipe felt like groaning.  
"I am glad you think so, Viscount," a silken voice called to him. Strange, it seemed familiar.  
"Our dear patrons!" Firmin and Andre called, trailing after a masked man. "May we introduce you to the composer of tonight's opera!"  
"A pleasure to meet you," the man hummed. Unbidden, a shiver ran through Raoul. Surely he could not be the same man—if he was, then surely he could not remember Raoul. Well, there was only one way to check.  
"And you as well," he said, tongue flitting out and wetting his lips. "Monsieur Erik."  
The composer froze.  
"Surely you remember, Monsieur, how I fetched your sheet music from the breeze?"  
The man looked as though all the air had been knocked out of him. Slowly, however, his eyes met Raoul's."Yes, I remember, Raoul."


End file.
